


With Your Eyes Turned Skyward

by megyal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Art, Battle Scenes, Cute Kids, F/M, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Muteness, Physical Disability, Pre-Slash, Prosthesis, Veela, Violence, Wingfic, a little bit of Neville, a lot of Astoria, mechanical stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 07:09:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4295391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco has lost so much in an accident...but maybe Potter has the solution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Your Eyes Turned Skyward

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amemait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amemait/gifts).



> Written for the Final Round of [HDS-Beltane](http://hds-beltane.livejournal.com/)...one of my favourite fests. Apparently, I 'wrote a fic (or two!) for every single hds_beltane fest from the beginning. That's 11 fics over 9 fests!' [Snowgall](http://snowgall.livejournal.com/26490.html?format=light) HAS ALL THE STATS! NICE.
> 
>  **Betaed by:** The amazing Plum! My darling.  
>  **More Notes:** When I saw the prompt and it asked for 'porn if there's wingfic', my mind said YES. YES THERE WILL BE WINGS AND PORN and I had literally clenched my fist in promise. It did not happen; my fist-clench was wasted. I am sorry to say, Amemait, that there is no porn in this. But if you wish, I am more than willing to write more scenes after the reveals. I do hope in the mean-time you enjoy what I've attempted. To the mods: thank you so so much for your time and patience. Your hard work has made this fest so enjoyable for me; the artwork in this is dedicated to you! 
> 
> Thank you so much to [notchibi](http://notchibi.tumblr.com/), who kindly provided the artwork. They inspired me to keep writing...and your emails. You're an absolute star. 
> 
> Dear Person Reading: My visual interpretation of Harry and Astoria are not what is popularly portrayed, so please expect that. Also, thank you!

_When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.  
-Leonardo Da Vinci_

\---

Nearly a year before the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco came into his Veela inheritance. It was kind of a grand surprise, despite the fact that there were recorded Veela ancestors on both sides of his family, but there hadn't been any indication that he'd get hit with the genetic train. Draco did not deal with it well. It was actually quite _painful_ (train metaphors all still quite applicable), and Draco was of the bitter opinion that he had been through far too much pain in the past few months. Just...well, more than he was used to. 

His parents tried their best to help him hide it. His father located an obscure and quite likely illegal potion which assisted in suppressing the most extreme signs of his heritage. His mother, who had the most talent at spell-casting in their family, wove buffers so light and airy and yet so powerful, that his allure was dampened quite efficiently. Thank Merlin that the Dark Lord was constantly distracted by Potter: chasing after him this moment; just missing him the next; brooding or snarling at everyone in his path when Potter managed to slip out of the many nets that the Dark Lord cast for him. If ever in his life that Draco was thankful for the prat, it was in moments like these, that Lord Voldemort was so distracted that he did not notice the existence of a Veela right under his nose.

Being at Hogwarts wasn't much help; he left the Inquisitorial Squad, with nary an explanation. Headmaster Snape made no comment, and Draco was rather grateful. The weeks and months crawled past, and every day Draco layered on the spells which dampened his Veela nature. Some mornings he would grit his way through the ache in his back, and other days it felt like two burning brands had set up residence on either side of his spine. 

It got bad. One night, he trudged in a daze of agony and nightmares, narrowly avoiding the Carrows on patrol. He found himself drawn towards a winding stairwell to one of the abandoned towers. For a moment, he couldn't breathe, for it was very similar in shape to that place from where Dumbledore had fell. He had to sit down for a moment on one of the stone treads and rest his forehead against his knees. After a few moments of forced deep breathing, he stood; he still felt a great compulsion to be up on the roof of the tower, to let the cold breeze rush along his face and through his hair.

A girl stood on the embattlement of the open tower, right within a crenel at the edge. She wore a loose blue dress and her thick, dark hair was caught up into many neat braids gathered into a larger one which hung down to the middle of her back.

"Don't jump," Draco said, the words lurching unbidden from between his lips; he felt some alarm but his voice felt reedy and flat. The girl turned around and gave him a bright smile even as she jumped down from the crenel. Her teeth were bright in the gloom. Draco blinked; there was something very familiar about her face and his mind jumped eagerly on the mystery, trying to stifle any attention to soreness and spasms.

"I almost did," the girl said, trotting over to him. She was a few years younger, and her eyes were large in her round face. "I know I could make it...you know too, right?" She grabbed at his hand and Draco actually flinched at the electric sensation of their touch. He glanced down with a growing sense of awe at the joined grip.

"You feel it," she whispered, squeezing his fingers and her name occurred to him as if it was a small boat rolling in massive waves: _Astoria_. Daphne's younger sister. "Have your wings come out as yet?"

Draco snatched his hand away, his eyes nearly bulging in shock at her. Astoria's eyes grew even larger in response and she took a single step back, before moving around him so quickly that her dress flared about her as she moved. When Draco turned to watch her go, it felt as if they doing the steps to an intricate dance.

"I thought you--" she said, but she was already at the door and down the stairs before the rest of her sentence emerged. Draco stared at the dark space of the arched entry to the roof and then stood still for a long time; he could almost imagine the rustle of feathers.

\---

In the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry Potter lost his right arm. 

Later, he would complain that the term 'lost his arm' was such an inadequate phrase. It sounded as if he had removed his limb without one iota of pain, placed it somewhere in a distracted manner (in much the same way one would put down a mug which was not one's _regular_ mug, and so not subject to the same level of care), and then forgot where he'd last set it. The word 'lost' barely managed to encapsulate the circumstances of the sudden deprivation of his extremity. 

He had been in the front courtyard, and Neville had tossed him the sword of Gryffindor to finish fending off Voldemort. Shouts and screams had been painting the air red all over the place, and Harry had had bent all of his attention blocking Voldemort's attacking spells with the gleaming sword in his right hand and the Elder Wand in his left. Nagini was dead by Neville's hand, and the blemish of being a Horcrux had already been lifted from Harry's soul by the tears of Dumbledore's phoenix: all that was left was to destroy this last living element of the Dark Lord, his last physical manifestation.

"You _can't_ ," Voldemort hissed at him and grinned hatefully. His teeth seemed to be nearly obscured by blood gushing over them, and his pale skin was mottled dark in many places. Yet, his dark eyes gleamed and he stood there like a massive pale spider, poisonous and cunning and indomitable. A little voice of doubt whispered in the back of Harry's mind: _maybe he's right. you can barely hold up that sword, mate, and the Elder Wand isn't even listening to you._

"I will," Harry had promised, mostly to himself, and he'd simply thrown Gryffindor's sword, the blade spinning end over end. It sliced through all the wisping spells surrounding Voldemort, straight into his chest. Voldemort staggered back, gazing down on the quivering blade. Harry forgot nearly all of what happened next: apparently, he'd stood straight, flung out his left hand which still clutched the Elder Wand towards Voldemort, and spoke old, deep words that no-one present had ever heard before or since. The sword glowed, Voldemort in the middle of the blue-edged conflagration, and the Dark Lord was consumed in the great combustion which shook the ground and swept everyone else off their feet. Gryffindor's sword was flung out of the explosion back towards a still-standing Harry and...well, he'd been holding out his right arm straight out to the side, for balance, apparently; and so the sword had slashed right through it, well and clean. It was a good thing, Ron claimed, that it hadn't stuck in his chest the way it had done for old Voldie. Pure luck, that.

So Harry couldn't really recall how he'd killed the Dark Lord. He _did_ remember lying on the ground amidst shifting rubble, and his hearing seemed quite muffled, as if his ears were packed with cotton. Overhead, the grey clouds hung low and heavy with the threat of spring rain, but a few brave rays of sun pierced through the thick layer, and motes of dust danced along the bright paths. It was all kind of pretty, really. A circlet of burning pain cinched around his bicep and when he allowed his head to loll in that direction, he realised it was because he was missing his right arm from a few inches above the elbow.

 _Well fuck_ , Harry had thought dimly. _And it was my favourite one, too_.

He tried to sit up, but he forgot that he was now down to nearly three-quarters of his allotted limb quota, and couldn't place both palms flat on the ground to push upwards. So he lay there and hoped that he wasn't bleeding out too much.

"Harry!" Hermione screamed from what sounded like five thousand miles away, but Harry blinked to find her kneeling beside him, tears streaming down her brown cheeks. "Oh my god, Harry!"

"Yes," Harry croaked. "Well. Maybe you can give me a hand."

"Mate," Ron said and Harry tried to smile at him sitting on the other side, his freckles like stars under the night of grime on his face. His eyes were bright with tears as well. "That was horrible. You'll need to arm yourself better than that."

Hermione actually moaned as if someone had removed _her_ arm, even as she waved her wand over Harry's bleeding limb. He felt the desperate press of her magic working to abate the flow of his blood.

"I'd give my right arm for a drink of water," Harry muttered. He began to tremble, and closed his eyes briefly. Ron let out a choked sob.

"We'll get you some," he promised. "After we all lay down arms, I guess."

Harry laughed at that, a rough cawing sound which felt as if it clawed at his throat as it emerged. "Think I can get it back with some Skele-gro, Hermione?"

"I don't know," Hermione replied, her voice rough; she looked positively miserable at her utter lack of certainty. "I'm so sorry, Harry."

"Oh it's fine, really," Harry told her and he was about to tack on something about twisting someone's arm for that damned water, but he fell into a state of unconsciousness so intensely deep that he could almost hear a solid thump.

When he awoke, the pain was thankfully quite muted, existing roughly within the core of the earth. Harry gazed blearily down at the space where his arm should have been and swallowed past a lump which had lodged in his throat. He'd lost an arm: Teddy had lost both his parents; the Weasleys had lost Fred; Professor Snape had lost himself. So many things and persons had been _lost_ , and for the first time in quite a long time, Harry allowed the hot slide of tears down his cheeks. He was in an area by himself, shut away in a corner in the school's hospital wing by a white curtain. From outside, he heard quiet sobs and groans from other injured people, and he flung his left arm over his eyes. 

Madame Pomfrey checked on him a few minutes later, and thankfully made no comment on the puffy state of his face and his reddened eyes. She was very subdued as she went through the familiar checks with a robotic manner, giving him two tall vials of potions to consume. She did offer him a smile when she tried to unsuccessfully brush at the long strands of filthy hair which curled into his eyes. 

"Can't grow back the arm, can you?" Harry asked then, half-jokingly, half-serious. The mediwitch's gaze became even more shuttered, and her smile quite fixed.

"We've tried, Mr. Potter," she said, firmly and brusquely, obviously working through this as quickly as possible. Harry took deep breaths, trying to calm himself. "It wasn't cursed off, which is usually the case with such permanent damage. But between the Sword, the Dark Lord's blood and...and whatever your spell had been, your injury cannot be undone. We can't grow it back."

"Well." Harry turned his face away, staring at the wall against which his bed was pushed, blinking rapidly. "Well, then," he said and he felt so tired and so low that even the air he breathed was too much to take. Madame Pomfrey's hand rested lightly on his shoulders for a few of his laboured breaths and then the rustle of her robes hailed her departure. Harry cried again, quietly at first. When he tried to lift his arms to rub away the tears and only the fingers of one hand stroked at his cheeks, he let himself sob helplessly.

\---

_fifteen years later_

"Almost ready, love!" Astoria yelled as she charged about the large dressing room, panting. She already had on a nice pair of close-fitting trousers, a silken blouse gripped tightly in one hand as she ran towards the shelves which held her shoes, looking for her favourite heels: the black ones with the pointed golden toes. Her hair and make-up charms were in overdrive, and she seemed to be creating her own whirlwind as she crashed from one side of the room to the other.

Draco, who had been ready for the past ten minutes, sat in a large armchair in the corner of their bedroom and peered at the mayhem in the dressing room. A small smile twitched at the corner of his thin mouth at her usual shenanigans. She paused in the middle of sliding on her heels, giving him a mock scowl.

"Are you laughing at me?" she demanded, putting her hands on her hips. The hair charm completed its task of sweeping the dark strands into a stylish mass of waves atop her head. She sported a deep red lipstick which emphasized her full lips and set well against the warm nutmeg of her skin. "I did well, I think!"

"You did, well done," Draco said, rising up out of his armchair and walking towards his wife. He put his arms around her and kissed her cheek carefully, murmuring in her ear: " _Must_ we go, darling?"

Astoria nodded, the movement firm. She pulled back but remained in the circle of his arms, her dark gaze locked with his as she rest her hands on his hips.

"We've been working so hard," she told him, nodding as if trying to convince herself as well. "We'll be fine. It'll be fantastic."

" _You've_ been working hard," Draco said, thinking about all the charity work into which Astoria had funnelled Malfoy money and name. Despite the doubt and dismay from Lucius and Narcissa, Astoria put herself out there. She volunteered, she faced the sneers and muttered insults with a politely bland expression. There had been, of course, one notable incident some years ago in a hallway at the Ministry, when a wizard had thrown some object at Draco as they headed towards an event: a bit of garbage, or something. 

Astoria's protective Veela instincts had flared without warning, so abruptly that Draco had stumbled a few steps away from her. Gasps filled the wide corridor as her massive brown wings had snapped into existence, ripping the back of her lacy gown. The tips of her wings crumpled against the brick walls of the corridor. She'd grown at least a foot and a half a foot in height, her face transforming into the angular avian shape, and she'd crouched down to screech right in the face of the man who had thrown the garbage.

Reflexively, Draco's wings had emerged as well, a sudden eruption of cartilage and feathers; he had no idea if his face had transformed, and it hadn't felt as if it did. He hadn't been focused on himself; his main thought was to calm Astoria before violence transpired, and the way she reached out with her clawed fingers made that outcome seem quite inevitable.He stepped between the terrified wizard and her glowering visage. He hadn't used words, for none had occurred to him at all. He _sang_ to her, something he had no idea that he could do: a soft croon which rippled through notes and tones so gentle that a hush had fallen over those still standing in the long corridor. Astoria had gone completely still, her black eyes fixed on him; abstractedly, he noted the fine bead of sweat which now guarded the border of her brow and feather-filled hair. She touched his face, shrinking back down to her normal petite height, but she kept looking right in his eyes.

The fallout after that had been absolutely heinous. Surprisingly, the Veela nation had actually become involved, despite their constant and consistent assertions that Draco and Astoria were not pureblood Veela; that whole bit was...actually well-deserved. Draco had calmly accepted the irony, for it meant that they were under the official protection of the Veela nation, if only nominally. There were many a kerfuffle in the media over the possible nefarious reasons behind _**The Malfoy Secret!!**_ That was handled by the Malfoy family lawyer, but at least after the whole event, no one thought it a reasonable idea to cut Draco in public...at least, not when Astoria was nearby.

Draco stared down at her now. She felt warm under his arms, as if she had been sitting in the sun for some time and it had lent an lovelier glow to her sepia skin. In the light from the wall-sconce, gold strands of hair glinted amongst the dark curls. He held her carefully; he always felt so serene when he was with her...so calm and protected.

"We're still rather early," Draco told her in what he hoped was a seductive whisper, sliding his hands down to cup the curve of her bottom. She wriggled against his taller body, but her eyes glinted in something other than the arousal he had hoped for.

"I know...I was hoping to drive!"

Draco groaned, staggering back theatrically and placing the back of his hand against his forehead. No, not the Audi. There had been a dramatic increase in interest a few years ago in the Muggle contraptions, eagerly fostered by wizards from places like Saudi Arabia and Qatar. These rich kids tooled around in London every summer, and their magical upgrades had made the cars that much more attractive. Draco had bought a white, enhanced Audi for Astoria's birthday, and her delight in driving it was palpable.

They spent many hours flying together over the large lawn at the back of their house near Swindon, dipping and dancing in the air, the breeze rushing through their feathers and hair. Draco loved to fly with her, but for Astoria, driving was a true rush. She punched through the gears like a race-car driver, rounding corners at spine-tingling speeds. There were charms that muted the huge rumbling of the engine, and made the car unnoticeable to the casual Muggle gaze, but Astoria didn't like the hammerspace spell which made the car compress like the Knight Bus.

"It isn't any fun, darling!" she would exclaim and Draco would spend long moments bemoaning her horrid, horrid ideas of fun. 

"It's two hours to London from here," he pointed out to her now, but the width of her smile was enough to rouse his suspicions. "We'd be an hour late if we started driving now."

"We can Apparate part of the way," she said, taking him by the wrist and tugging him close once more. "It'll be grand." She winked and he laughed because Astoria couldn't wink very well: both eyelids always squinted, and it always appeared hilarious to him.

"Besides," she continued over his chuckles. "When we get back home, I can use _your_ stick-shift."

"That's the worst innuendo I've ever heard," Draco told her, and gave her round nose a quick kiss. "But I'll take up the offer."

The drive to the gallery was an experience unto itself, as usual. Draco gripped the padded ledge of his door and grimaced as she shifted up and down the gears; sometimes she cackled a little, quietly delighted, and Draco would roll his eyes. She did have to employ the hammerspace spell once they got near and in to London, for the traffic was atrocious.

The Wizarding gallery was hidden within the Tate Modern. Astoria shrunk the car in a small, warm alley and put it in Draco's pocket; they walked a little ways to get to the gallery, arm in arm and chattering. Inside Tate Gallery, they made their way past hordes of Muggles, and into one narrow room which did not seem to serve any particular purpose; no Muggles came into this tiny area, subconsciously repelled by the Notice-Me-Not charm. Draco and Astoria walked right through the wall at the end of the room, pausing to gaze around at the extremely tall space. 

Draco felt the chilly sweep of a cooling charm, and was grateful for it, for a large crowd of magical folk milled around the hidden gallery. A few of those close by actually stopped in their milling, and stared at Draco and Astoria before bending close to their companions and whispering. Draco held Astoria's hand tightly, but she didn't seem to be giving them much of her attention. Instead, she looked closely at the art they had come to see, glancing at Draco with a small smile now and again.

Metallic structures stood on squat round podiums of differing heights painted a pale pink shade. Draco stared around at the numerous shapes, with their curved planes and rigid lines. Some were made with such thick, imposing components that they felt like miniature skyscrapers. Others seemed to be collections of fine wires coaxed into delicate silhouettes. He and Astoria strolled slowly along, reading the small panels of text affixed to the podiums. A faint buzz of magic indicated the presence of powerful spells which held them in form. Most were human-height, twisting collections of polished or painted metal. There were a few which changed their shape ever so often, and did so at varying speeds depending on how many people were observing.

"Wow," Astoria said on a quiet breath. "This is…"

"Surprising," Draco said and eyed a small figurine which twisted from a bird into a skull. "A bit morbid."

"Do you think?" Astoria stopped and leaned a little so she could read the panel of the art right beside Draco's skull. " _Nights Without_ ," she read aloud and straightened up a bit with a little frown. This one was a small person rising up out of rippling waves of iron. The figure had their arms raised, fists clenched; they could have been drowning, but there was an unassailable air about the whole ordeal. "I think I like this one."

"We could get it," Draco said. "Maybe for the entry hall?"

Astoria nodded slowly, even as she asked, "You'd be alright with that?"

Draco's response was immediate: "Of course." He grinned at her as she eyed him contemplatively without moving her head to look him directly in the face. He gave her hand a little squeeze and then motioned with his free hand to one of the black-robed attendants; he hurried over, but hesitated for a noticeable beat when he saw that it was Draco and Astoria standing there. 

"May I help?" he said, a plastic smile pulling at his lips. All of Astoria's warmth bled to nothing, and she stared at the attendant with every ounce of Malfoy coolness. She was such a tiny person, and Draco couldn't imagine how she managed to look down at her nose at the attendant, who was nearly as tall as Draco.

"We'd like to buy this piece," Astoria told him in a flat, icy manner. Draco wondered if the attendant would refuse, but he simply nodded, and withdrew his wand. He tapped the dais and the little white panel switched to a light shade of red. "Thank you!" Astoria told him, some of her chilly air diminished in her excitement; the attendant blinked at her and then smiled in response, more warmly this time.

"If you'd like anything else, please do not hesitate to call me," he said with a quick incline of his head and stepped around them as someone else signalled to him. Draco's attention was pulled to the back of the room, and he nudged Astoria in the side.

"And there's the artist," he told her, and Astoria went up on her tiptoes to try and peer through the crowd. "On the stage there..can you see? Or shall I lift you?"

"Be quiet," she groused at him, rocking from side to side as she tried for a better view. "Argh! This crowd!"

Laughing, Draco led her to the side; the artwork was set a few feet from the walls, leaving enough space behind them to stand or walk. Here, there were far less people and they had a clearer line of sight. Harry Potter stood there with a few Weasleys and Granger. His hair was as hopeless as usual, but it was very glossy; tousled waves fell nearly to his shoulders and framed his narrow face. His eyes were bright chips of emerald against the brown of his skin. Potter seemed tired but cheerful, and he wore a pair of dark gloves under the decorated sleeves of his fancy robes. In his arms he held his son, a wriggling little boy who seemed more Weasley than Potter with the requisite pale skin, freckles and red hair. Ginny Weasley stood right next to him, tickling their son and laughing with his high-pitched giggles.

"Did you know that he was like this?" Astoria asked quietly. "Artistic, I mean."

Draco shook his head. "No. I suppose he didn't know either, if I had to guess."

Astoria's smile was contemplative and she nodded slowly; her dark gaze flitted from side to side, taking in the different pieces of art.

"I think it's very him," she decided and when Draco looked around, he found he could agree.

\---

"Okay, here we go!" Healer Chudha said, bringing over Harry's prosthetic right arm on a wide metallic tray. The arm wasn't at all like the first one Harry had ever gotten; _that_ one had been exceedingly realistic, with warm skin and fingernails that grew and even gooseflesh. Harry had hated it. He'd appreciated the craft of it, yes; it had been wonderfully made and had cost an arm, haha, and a leg. He'd been more interested, however, in the charms which had connected the limb to his nervous system...and with that first arm, he had learned to build the others.

All of his subsequent prosthetics were more tools than limbs. He had one with a hook extension, one with a circular end which he used as an arc-welder, one with tong-like grip attachment for his wand...even though he'd taught himself to cast with his left hand. This most recent was the most 'normal', except it appeared more like it belonged to a robotic skeleton: gleaming radius and ulna, a collection of ball bearings which served as the carpus and slender appendages which had roughened pads, just like fingerprints. Harry was so excited, he could hardly sit still on the examination table.

Held close to Harry's chest in a cloth-sling, Albus Severus snuffled, jostled by the swinging motion of Harry's legs. He wriggled his chubby limbs, smacked his lips together and then went back to drooling on Harry's collarbone, tiny body lax in comfort. He was six months old, and was warm and smelled lovely. Harry bent his head and pressed a kiss to the black curls on his baby's head, and then grinned as Healer Chudha placed the tray on the table beside him.

"These actuation charms you've put on, they are very good," Healer Chudha told him. "Strong and stable...and this prosthetic is well made. Detailed!"

"Thanks," Harry said, pleased. He held out the stump of his right arm, which had a metal implant which had been attached directly to the severed bone of his humerus. The implant projected a few inches through the scarred skin, and it terminated in a small globe. The cup-like end of the prosthetic possessed a corresponding socket into which the globe locked, and Chudha connected it now with a delicate but firm touch. Harry winced, for there was a pinching sensation when the parts joined.

Chudha held onto the prosthetic, gazing at Harry with concern in his deepset eyes. "My apologies, Mr. Potter. Does it still hurt?"

"No, no," Harry said, shaking his head. "It's fine now. Could you keep holding it a bit? I need to activate the bonding charm."

The healer nodded. "Of course." He watched closely as Harry used his left hand to twirl his wand carefully over his flesh and the prosthetic. Harry felt his magic surge willingly, fluttering under his skin, waiting for the right moment. 

" _Annecetere_ ," Harry whispered, and his magic bloomed like a field of roses. Albus Severus snuggled close as if he was cold and Harry was the only source of heat in the room. Absently, Harry pressed his mouth briefly again to those unruly curls. He felt the nerves in his arms light up, and the growing awareness of the presence of the prosthetic, taking its place in his mind just as his flesh and blood arm. With a little effort, he touched the middle digit to the thumb and let out a happy sigh when the fingers responded smoothly; he could feel the pressure of the touch perfectly.

"Well done!" Healer Chudha said, releasing Harry's arm and clap his hands once. Harry grinned up at him and then raised his eyebrows slightly as the healer's expression became blank. A frown built like a tiny stormcloud between his heavy brows. "Do...do you hear that?"

Harry tilted his head and listened. He couldn't hear anything, but the air felt heavy and thick. "No, I don't--"

They both jumped as a scream ripped through the quietness of this part of St. Mungos. These outpatient rooms were located in the same wing as the A&E, but on an adjoining corridor. This was, however, the first time Harry had ever heard such a noise in the hospital. It ripped the air to shreds, leaving tattered strands of emptiness. Poor Albus Severus flinched awake and burst into frightened tears.

"Oh, darling," Harry crooned, throwing up a sound-blocking bubble around himself and his baby, and then stroked down the small trembling back. Albus Severus continued to wail; Harry got to his feet, making shushing sounds. Healer Chudha ran to the door with a speed belied by his tall, wide frame, pausing before turning back to Harry with a _stay-here_ motion of his hands before he dashed out.

Harry loosened the cloth-sling so that he could cradle Albus Severus in the crook of his right arm, which performed admirably; the baby's weight was minimal, but it bent and moved just the way he'd designed. With his left, Harry dug around in the pocket of his jeans, in a little wizardspace where he kept a few bottles and a great deal of other baby paraphernalia. He pulled out a short bottle of apple juice and tried it on the squalling little boy, but Albus Severus turned his head away and kicked his legs, still hollering. Harry rocked from side to side gently. In a few moments, the shrill cries which had been bouncing around the bubble ceased, and Albus Severus stared up at Harry with an accusing expression in his tear-filled eyes.

"Okay, Alsie?" Harry asked and the baby sniffled, still pouting. He slipped the bottle back in his pocket and then stood there in the room, head bent. Then, without allowing himself any time to think, he left the examination room and went out into the wide corridor. He looked from one end to the other, but there was no one in sight. The other doors were tightly closed, and Harry headed towards the end which connected to that of the A&E. He turned one corner, but there was a chair turned over right at the intersection. He reached out with one foot and shoved it out of his way, and then stepped forward only enough to peer around the edge of the wall.

Harry had a clear view into a room with columns like slender trees which towered high overhead to spread into arched beams. The area had a lot of lamps, but many of them were either flickering in a forlorn manner, or were completely out. All the chairs in the waiting area were turned over; every single one. The silencing bubble was still active, but a sharp, coppery scent seeped through the barrier. Hurriedly, Harry adjusted Albus Severus in his arms so that the baby's cheek rested against his shoulder, and he wasn't facing the scene ahead.

A Veela was on a rampage at the other end of the room. Harry couldn't hear a thing, but he could see the beak-like mouth open wide, apparently screeching at the medical personnel trying to get close. Its black eyes were bulging wide as it lashed out with clawed fingers, and the small crowd tumbled back. A few steps behind the Veela, a gurney stood at an angle to the wall; a body was on it, covered with a white shroud. A small brown arm hung off the edge of the gurney; dark trails of gleaming blood trickled down the skin and dripped from the slightly curled fingers onto the floor, but there was a lot more blood covering the floor in that corner than Harry thought should have come out of one body.

A sour taste lurched at the back of Harry's tongue, and he swallowed hard. Albus Severus wriggled around, trying to turn his head and Harry shifted so that he wouldn't see. One of the Veela's wings bristled high up in the air, the white feathers gleaming in the low light. There was blood on that wing as well, and when the Veela turned to fend off a pair of burly porters, Harry saw that the right wing was gone; there was nothing there but a mangled mound of flesh at its back, seen through the shreds of what once were blue dress-robes.

"Oh, Merlin," Harry breathed, his heart thudding in his chest. He could only imagine the noise outside his bubble now; he didn't dare drop it for Albus Severus' sake. He saw Healer Chudha collect an object from a mediwitch and set it to hovering with a sharp twist of his wand. He waited until the Veela's attention was fully on the porters and with a rapid flick, the object flashed through the air and lodged into the side of the Veela's long neck. It was a needle, and the Veela batted it out of its skin, its movements becoming quite sluggish. It staggered back, clutching tightly at a small bundle in its feather-covered arms.

It sat on the ground beside the gurney, and shook its head, fighting against the tranquilizing potion. Slowly, it began to transform from its Veela state to human: eyes going from all black to white-and-grey, and platinum feathers atop its head disappearing into strands of the same shade. Draco Malfoy sat there on the blood-covered ground of the A&E, his face slack but his eyes burning. Harry watched as his grip loosened on the bundle in his arms, but a mediwizard was at his side in a moment, snatching it up. Malfoy reached up with a shaking hand, tears streaming down his thin face. The mediwizard whirled away, peeling back the cloth with urgent movements to reveal the small face of a baby about the same age as Albus Severus. The baby wasn't crying or moving at all, and Harry felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach.

When he looked back at Malfoy, there were healers around him, lifting him into the air with a gentle Leviosa. He floated in the midst of the bustling crowd as they headed in the same direction as the mediwizard had gone with the baby. Malfoy's head turned towards Harry as they passed close, a drooping movement; their eyes met, but he didn't seem to register Harry's presence.

When they'd all disappeared into the depths of the A&E, Harry found that he was shaking helplessly and Albus Severus was crying again, but in a confused way. Harry tried to catch his breath, but he could only manage some shaky gasps. At least he hadn't gripped Alsie too tightly in his dismay; his right arm was much stronger than his left at this point.

"I'm so sorry," he said, not sure if he was talking to his unhappy little boy, or the still figure stretched out under the shroud at the other end of the room.

\---

_six years later_

"I agree with your concerns about the safeguarded sites," Draco said to the group of Veela at the other end of the Floo-call, "But we can't go about it in such a violent manner."

"It is easy for you to say," one Veela hissed, her black gaze fixing on him with an intense mixture of desperation and entreaty. "You have lived with them and as one of them… you aren't here and you do not see how they encroach constantly on our lands. On our _history_."

Draco moved his head as if he was drawing a circle in the air with his chin, the Veela way of showing acceptance of a statement, "You're right, I'm not there," he admitted and the heads of the Veela nation looked at each other and then back at him. "I wish I could be on a more regular basis. I apologise for that."

The Veela who had just spoken was called Goleila, and she tipped her sharp chin at him, a clear invitation that she wanted to hear what else he had to say. Draco nodded once more. A great part of Veela communication involved more body-language than what humans employed. Astoria had been taught quite a lot by her grandmother, and had taught Draco all that she knew. Draco now moved his shoulders and hands as he spoke, cautiously formed but fluid gestures; those Veela who could not understand his words fixed their gazes on his arms. 

"Their numbers are far more than ours," he said and Goleila's expression became shuttered. Her nostrils flared and her wings, exposed in agitation, shifted noisily. "And to have them discover our lands and our people would be detrimental. When our young ones attack the Muggles in their anger, they'll investigate. Muggles are clever. Their technology is becoming more and more sensitive to our magic."

One of the other Veela asked a question in quick sign and Draco had to take a moment to translate.

"Yes: I did ask the Wizarding Council for any assistance they could provide for greater wards. They've agreed to send over a team as soon as they've received your permission."

That Veela, Kiriel, turned to the others and signed, _we must send our seal of approval to Tharmisa, so that he may communicate that to the wizards. We need this._

As the others agreed, Draco hid a small pleased smile at the use of his Veela name, and hoped that his expression remained blank and calm. A smile didn't have the same meaning in Veela culture at all; it could be construed as a threatening gesture.

 _We also continue to be dismayed at the use of our tattoos and our braids_. Seriel, a sibling of Kiriel, signed and Draco acknowledged their concern with an empathetic flutter of his fingers. An increasing number of young witches and wizards these days wore the Veela-inspired ink and complex cords worn in 'braids' around the neck, meanings of which were lost on much of those non-Veela wearers. Draco, who chose not to wear any, had given many a talk about that issue, but the response had been mostly scoffing, or confused defensiveness. _But thank you for your hard work. It is much appreciated_.

Draco laced his fingers together in grateful respect. He moved to terminate the call but Goleila asked, uncharacteristically hesitant, "And Tharataha?"

"He is well," Draco answered and the Veela version of a smile lit up in Goleila's eyes.

"Good. He is due a visit to us. Bring him soon."

That wasn't a request and Draco knew it; he acknowledged the command with the appropriate sign. Goleila clenched the fingers of one hand to bid him farewell, and the green flames died away. He inhaled deeply and let it out on a long sigh. As the only Veela representative to the Wizengamot, he found it was a difficult but sometimes rewarding post. He tucked a long, wayward strand of his pale hair behind his ears. He had let it grow long, like his father at this age. It tickled the back of his neck, even though he had it pulled into a braid. 

He left his office and went into the hall, pausing in front of a long, narrow table which stood against the wall opposite his door. Pictures of Astoria crowded the table, her bright smile beaming out of every single one. They looped over and over again: in the garden, at their wedding, one with her standing with her palms over her large belly, saying something with a helpless laugh. There was no sign of her car in any of the images.

A large portrait of her hung over the table, but it was one of her as a teenager, when her parents had commissioned a wizarding portrait; he'd asked them for it and they'd willingly sent it over, since there was a frame in their house where she mostly resided. She'd hadn't gotten one done when they'd been married; they'd thought there had been more than enough time to do a matching set. Portrait Astoria was in her ornate chair in this frame today, dressed in the deep orange robes which gave her brown skin a rich glow. Her curls had been pulled into a thick braid which hung over her shoulder. She blinked at him, and then a small, welcome grin curled her full lips. 

The first time she'd come into the frame, she recognized him, but wasn't quite sure who he was. Still, she had greeted him with a small wave.

"Hello," Draco had murmured that time, standing there with his hands stuck in the pockets of his trousers, feeling his anguish build in his chest. It had been about a month after the accident; Scorpius had still been under observation at St. Mungo's and angry bolts of pain constantly struck under the place where Draco's right wing had been, muffled only by the pain potions. He had hated the whole world, but the sight of her face was like a balm over his aching heart.

"Hello!" She had bounded towards him, gripping the wide skirt of her dress. "I'm quite sure I know you!"

Draco had hoped that his smile hadn't been too watery or brittle. "I'm Draco."

" _Are_ you?" Her eyebrows raised as her gaze raked up and down his tall frame. "I know a Draco Malfoy at school, but you're much older than he is."

"Yes," Draco said. "I'm a different Draco."

Astoria had nodded, her expression of one who thought they understood very clearly what that might mean. It was a fairly sympathetic expression.

"But...you can call me Tharmisa," he told her and her dark eyes sparkled. Draco had nearly staggered back at the sight of it. 

"That's a Veela name!" she'd crowed. "Mine's Kojitko! But my other name is Astoria. You can use the one you like."

"They're both nice," Draco had told her and she'd actually preened, the fingers of one hand tented on her chest. Draco had burst into laughter and then started to sob, sinking down to the floor and folding up into a ball of pure misery. His mother had found him there a few minutes later when she had called round for a visit.

Today, Astoria remained in her chair and did her usual wave, small hand tracing a neat arc in the air. She called, "Tharmisa! Do you think Scorpius could come see me today?" She adored Scorpius; she taught him all the Veela sign she knew, which was quite a lot. 

"I'll send him, soon as I find him," Draco told her and smiled at her before he continued down the hall. He passed the kitchens, where an ongoing spell lethargically dealt with the few dishes from lunch. Draco was an excellent cook but horrid at housekeeping spells; Astoria hadn't been much better, and they hadn't any house-elves. Scorpius wasn't playing with his toys in the living room, nor in his bedroom; Draco wasn't too worried. He had another spell running which would pull him to Scorpius' location if there was any sudden emergency. Draco trotted all over the small house calling for his son, before making his way out to the back yard.

The house was not even comparable to the size of the Manor, but it had a massive back yard; a great grassy field bracketed on all sides by a thick copse of tall, hardy trees. Draco could clearly see a small figure near the top of one tree to the left.

"Oh Merlin," he muttered and raced over to the tree, the tall grass shusshing against the thick material of trousers. When he got to the base of the tree and looked up, Scorpius gazed back down from nearly the highest branch. "Scorpius!"

Half in his Veela form, Scorpius' round eyes blinked twice. He still had his dark brown baby-feathers, and they stuck up around the back of his head. They were ridiculously cute, but Draco wasn't in the mood to acknowledge that right now.

"We _spoke_ about this," Draco told him and Scorpius looked away, a scowl pulling down the corners of his lips. "No flying unless I'm around!"

The pout on Scorpius' face intensified. In that moment, he looked so much like Astoria. In his full human state he had Draco's fair skin and hair, but his face was all her: the same small chin and round face. 

"You're stuck," Draco said, hands now braced on his hips. "Aren't you?"

Scorpius's head swung back around to face him, expression thunderous. To Draco's alarm, Scorpius removed one hand from his tight grip around the branch and signed, _No!_

"Fine. You're not stuck...just hang on tight." Draco pursed his lips briefly. "Can you get your wings out?"

His son hesitated. He clenched his fist and then signed _no_ again, in the manner of a hostile witness. 

Draco stifled a sigh. He was annoyed, and he felt...inadequate. If he had both his wings, he could show Scorpius how to fly, how to land, how to transform consciously and keep the Veela state active. It was harder for Veela who weren't considered purebloods, but once one got enough practice, it was easy. At the moment, Scorpius was operating on pure instinct. He needed some guidance and Draco didn't want to bring him to the Veela nation. It was irrational...but that would feel like giving up, somehow. 

His wing had been ripped off in the accident; he had flung it out and back to curve over Scorpius in the back-seat when the car had slammed into the low stone wall and gone over into the ravine. The healers had said that if the feathers hadn't cushioned the impact, then Scorpius would have died. When Scorpius had been released from St. Mungo's, Draco had held his still little frame close for hours and made all sorts of promises.

Now, he pulled out his wand and cast a soft cloud of air which he lifted up to Scorpius. "Jump on, darling," he said and Scorpius didn't hesitate. Carefully, he slid to one side of the branch and then let go, falling right in the middle of the cloud. Draco brought it down and Scorpius scrambled off it, running towards him for a hug. Draco gave him one easily, letting Scorpius clutch at his knees before holding him away a little and kneeling in front of him.

 _No flying without me, please_ , he told Scorpius. He was clumsy with the more detailed hand-signs than with the general body-language; sometimes Scorpius was amused at how Draco curled his fingers improperly; but right now he gazed solemnly up at Draco.

 _I wish you could fly with me_ , he said and Draco let out a quiet sigh, tempering it with a smile.

 _Kojitko wants to see you_ , Draco told him. Scorpius nodded, and then scattered off towards the house, his specially made short-robes fluttering as he ran. Draco watched him go, feeling a heavy frown weigh down his brow.

\---

"You could teach there in the days," Neville pleaded, dogging Harry's steps in his workshop. "You don't have to stay on the grounds, you know. You wouldn't even be asked to be the head of Gryffindor, or anything."

Harry shook his head, going from one side of the wide space to another. He wanted to finish his most recent piece, but Neville had insisted on visiting with him today….and annoying him over the same crap, apparently.

"Neville, mate," Harry said, picking up a large block of timber and weighing it in one hand. "I can think of at least five other people far more capable than me to teach. You're number three on the list."

"You killed a Dark Lord," Neville pointed out and Harry rolled his eyes.

"Not the best qualification, isn't it?" He went over to another table and opened a large case which was a bit dusty on the outside, but pristine on the padded interior. He pored over the different attachments designed for his prosthetic and then pulled out one with an end shaped like a drill-bit. Snapping it on, he turned back towards the wood and groaned at the bulk of Neville in his way.

Neville said, "You taught D.A. For, what, a whole year?"

"I had a good reason to." Harry stepped around him. "Now? Not so much." He picked up the wood and turned it over in his left hand, looking for the best place to start his cut. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Neville sit down on a nearby stool.

"Well," Neville said. "If you don't want to teach the older students, you know we've got the smaller ones at the primary school. And you'd just teach them art."

Harry wrinkled his nose, placing the drill-bit to the very corner of the block of wood. "I think that if you're going to teach, you should learn _how_ to teach. And you know I don't like kids."

"You have three!"

" _Them_ I know!" Harry laughed, knowing quite well that he was frustrating Neville but he just didn't want to teach. He didn't want much of anything, really. He had his work, he had his children; he didn't go out much and he was quite happy that way. 

Neville let out a long sigh, a sound of defeat. "Fine, then. It's just that...for the little ones, you know, art is just the best way for them to express themselves, to feel good. Especially if they've got some sort of bad situation at home." He seemed so calm when Harry turned to him with an incredulous stare.

"You absolute wanker," Harry breathed, a little irritated and a lot impressed. Neville lifted his broad shoulders, utterly unrepentant.

"I mean, if you had a teacher who could understand what you went through, that would have been a nice thing, don't you think?" Neville smiled. It was a very benign smile. Harry huffed. "Think about it at least?"

"I'll think about it," Harry conceded with as much ill-grace as he could manage but Neville's smile became even more beatific. He left before Harry could get even more cranky, a particular gift of his, and Harry grumbled under his breath as he pushed aside the wood and went to work on another project. He was in the middle of snipping some wires when he felt the wards ripple in notification: someone was calling the house-Floo.

"Daddy!" James hollered from the kitchen door, which stood about five feet away from that of the workshop. James did nearly everything at the top of his being. "There's a call for you at the Floo!"

"I know!" Harry shouted back. "I'll be there in a minute!" He quickly changed the clipping extension for the silvery mechanical arm and strode out of his workshop, passing James in the kitchen making a pile of jam sandwiches. "Are you going to eat all that by yourself?"

James gave him a nonplussed look. "Yes?"

"Make some for Alsie and Lils. Don't forget to wash the plates, yeah?" Harry left him to his small mountain of bread and jam. Al and Lily played with an army of figures on a long board in one corner of the living room and in another, the tall wiz-screen at the end of the room had a video-game paused on it. The Floo was in a small alcove just off the living room, and when Harry went around the short separating wall, he stopped so abruptly that he stumbled a little.

A very clear image of Draco Malfoy's face and torso hovered in the flames, staring up at him with an expectant sort of patience. His face didn't look as thin as it used to, and his pale eyes were tinged a bright green. Harry resisted the urge to pat down his hair, which was probably sticking up all over the place.

"Hello, Potter," Malfoy said, his voice pitched very low.

"Hello," Harry answered and then just stared at him. Malfoy withstood his stare admirably, until Harry built up the nerve to ask, "Is there...something I can do for you?"

"Yes," Malfoy said. "I'd like to commission you for a project. It's very..personal to me, and despite our history, I do hope you will consider it." He said something else equally diplomatic, but Harry's attention was snagged by the way he _moved_ as he spoke. It was extremely subtle; Malfoy seemed to be sitting on a large armchair, and his shoulders and arms twitched. It wasn't a sharp set of movements; they were small and smooth, but Harry was still distracted.

"Er," he said when he realised that Malfoy had stopped speaking and was staring at him expectantly. "Is it a memorial for your wife?"

Malfoy recoiled a little, seemingly more out of surprise more than shock or dismay. "No. But that is a nice idea. It's for _me_ , though."

"Let's hear it, then." Harry folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall. Malfoy nodded; his right arm moved out a few inches, then relaxed.

"I'd like for you to rebuild a wing for me. To replace the one I've lost."

Completely thrown, all Harry could blurt out was, "'Lost' is such an inadequate phrase," and Malfoy's eyes widened.

"I beg your pardon?" 

"When you say you 'lost' a wing, it's such a...that word doesn't even come close, you know? To what it really means. It doesn't cover the event and the aftermath and the, uh, pain. Just. It's inadequate." Harry tried to stop his babble, but the brakes were out. "That's what I'm saying."

Malfoy blinked once, very slowly and then smiled a little. "Yes...now that you say it, I find that it is."

Harry smiled at him, but it felt more like an uncertain grimace. "But I don't know, Malfoy," Harry told him and winced a little when Malfoy's expression closed up like a shutter over a window. "No, no...it's not because of any history or anything."

Tilting his head slightly to the left, Malfoy raised his eyebrows and waited. Harry tried to organize his thoughts a little.

"A wing is a...it's different from an arm." He held out his prosthetic, turning it back and forth. His right hand could spin in a complete circle around the wrist, much to the delight of his children, and the silvery fingers were very deft and strong. "It's _huge_ , for one. And there are more parts to think about, more...you need it to _fly_ \--" he broke off, staring into Malfoy's impassive face. "You need it to fly," he murmured, more to himself. "I don't know if I can."

Malfoy's eyelids dropped over his eyes, almost completely closing before he let them rise again. He smiled again, but it was tight and sad. "I understand." He shrugged one shoulder, and did an odd sliding movement with his left hand. "Goodbye."

"I--" The flames sputtered out and Harry exhaled heavily. He wondered if he should try to call Malfoy back, but what else was there to say? Before he could do anything, however, James and Lily came around the narrow wall. Lily still had one sandwich in the hand not gripped by James, and she nibbled at the crust.

"We were supposed to go back to Mum's at four," James told him, very officiously. "It's... _not_ four now."

"It's five," Lily announced and Harry reached out to ruffle stroke her soft red waves. She wrinkled her nose in a manner that Harry recognized in the mirror, and batted at his hand with her sandwich.

"Tell your Mum and Susan hello, then...and that I'm sorry again that you're late for dinner," Harry said, bending to kiss his eldest and youngest on their cheeks. James released his usual disgruntled sound as he received his, and Lily giggled.

"It's okay, Daddy. Mummy's never mad over that...bye, Alsies!" She said as Albus Severus slunk around the corner, his face long because his siblings were leaving for the day. With his nut-brown skin and green eyes and wild silky waves, he was nearly the complete copy of Harry; it was interesting how different he appeared from his brother and sister, even though they had the same genetic make-up. Harry sometimes wondered if the fact that he was the one who had carried Albus Severus was the important factor.

"Did you want to go with them?" Harry asked him as he reached for the Floo-powder. "It's fine if you do, you know."

Albus Severus thought about that for a moment and then shook his head. As much as he loved spending time with his siblings, he did like being by himself. He waved at Lily and James as they stepped from Harry's house to Ginny's, and then gave Harry a small smile.

"Hey, let's go out and draw some stuff," Harry suggested and Alsie's face brightened.

"Like what?" he asked, bouncing on the balls of his bare feet. Harry pursed his lips, pretending to ponder very deeply.

"I'm thinking...birds."

\---

Draco picked up a figurine and set it back down on the shelf. He rearranged some of his books according to the name of the author, and then arranged them according to size. He made sure the chairs in his office were set at an acceptable angle to each other and to the long desk; then he pushed them right against the wall, leaving a fairly large space in the middle of the room.

"What's going on?" Astoria called from her frame, leaning a little because the painting and the door to Draco's office didn't line up. "You've been up and about all morning."

"I'm expecting someone," Draco told her, trying to control the tight bundle of knots in the depth of his stomach. He went towards the door so she didn't have to angle herself that way.

Astoria raised her eyebrows. "Who?"

"Harry Potter," he said and Astoria made a face. Draco let out a surprised little laugh. "What's _that_ for?"

"He's so horribly disruptive at school," Astoria muttered, folding her arms over the gathered material of her gown. "Every year, it's something else!"

Draco shook his head slightly, and considered her deep scowl. Her dark eyes sparkled at him, her countenance filled with annoyance. He opened his mouth to ask her something, but the Floo chimed and he turned towards it reflexively. When he glanced back at Astoria's frame, she had departed from its boundaries.

The Floo chimed again. Draco called for Scorpius, and then hurried over, answering it and then giving the appropriate access. The green flames climbed higher and Harry Potter stepped out, a black case in one gloved hand, and holding the hand of his son with the other. They all stood there for a few precarious beats, and then Potter's lips twitched up in a smile.

"Hello," he said and Draco bit the inside of his lower lip to prevent himself from smiling too widely. Potter glanced around and nodded once in subdued approval before his gaze met Draco's once more. "Thanks for letting me carry Albus Severus along."

"It's quite fine," Draco told him, glancing down at the child with the cumbersome names. Albus Severus stared up at him with a face almost exactly like Harry Potter's; Draco experienced a moment of deja-vu so intense that it was almost like time-travel. "Scorpius will be here in a moment." He went down on one knee so that he wasn't looming over Albus Severus, and spoke quietly. "My son doesn't speak, Albus Severus. But he understands more than one spoken language and he can hear very keenly, so you needn't shout. He speaks in sign language: sometimes Veela standard, sometimes British sign. If you like, I can set up a translation charm, but it can be distracting. It's better if he writes out what he wants to tell you."

"Okay," was Albus Severus' short response after that spiel, his green gaze steady. Draco waited, wondering if he would say anything else or ask a question, but there was nothing else forthcoming. When Draco looked up at Potter, he appeared to have a very amused air.

Scorpius stampeded into the office just then, and then drew up short, eyes wide at the sight of the visitors. Draco got to his feet and held out one arm. Scorpius went right to him, leaning against his side.

"This is Harry Potter and his son Albus Severus," Draco informed him, both speaking out loud and using Veela sign. A bright gleam lit in Scorpius' eyes. His hands traced quick, sharp shapes in the air.

_Harry Potter? The one who fought in the War and won? That one?_

"Yes, that one," Draco said with a very faint trace of bemusement. "He's helping me with...with something. Show Albus Severus around, would you?"

 _Sure!_ The response was very hearty and Draco actually blinked at him; he watched as Scorpius turned to Albus Severus and beckoned to him, fingers curling in an easily comprehensible signal of _let's go!_

As Albus Severus stepped away from Potter's orbit, Draco asked, "Would you like me to to activate the translation charm? Only if you want to," he finished in as smooth a tone as he could manage, for he could sense the slight rigidity which had built up in Potter's frame. Albus Severus considered for a few beats, still gripping his father's hand.

Finally he said, "No, it's okay." He extricated his hand from Potter's with an efficient movement, glancing up at his father before walking out of the office in Scorpius' bubbling wake. He seemed to be such a collected little boy, Draco mused.

"That went far better than expected," Draco said, turning to Potter, and if his smile was a little bitter then that was perfectly fine. Potter's gaze was steady, but there was an amused air about him.

"They're different from how we were," Potter said, an odd tilt to his mouth. "Less expectations and history, I would say."

"Right." Draco cleared his throat. "Well...thank you, Potter, for doing this for me."

"Don't thank me yet." Potter set down the case and tugged at the ends of his gloves, but did not remove them. "I'll have to build it first, and make sure it works properly. So…" he trailed off and gave Draco a long, expectant stare. Draco raised his eyebrows and waited.

"I need to measure you," Potter said, his voice low and his expression fixed. "Your wing, that is."

Draco felt warmth flush his face and hoped that he hadn't gone too red. "Oh, of course," he said and took a deep breath. He began to unbutton his shirt, not trusting himself with a wand at this point in time; he hadn't thought to put on one of the specially constructed shirts which allowed for the emergence of the wings, for he hadn't worn one in years. He was deeply relieved when Potter turned away to kneel in front of the black case and open it. 

Draco shrugged off his shirt and forced his arms to hang loosely by his side. He was of the opinion that he still far too skinny for his height; he had never gained his father's bulk. In addition to that, his Mark felt as if it was shouting against his skin, dormant for years but darkly apparent. When Potter stood up and turned towards him, Draco knew the moment when he caught sight of the Mark: he paused ever so slightly and then continued on in a deliberately determined fashion.

"Before I put the wing out," Draco said, and Potter stopped just a few steps away from him, a small silver case in hand. "You need to know that it can be very….sensitive. Most Veela are quite ticklish on their wings."

Potter's smile was enigmatic. "I see. Turn around then, let's get to measuring."

Taking a deep breath, Draco turned around. He inhaled and allowed his left wing to emerge, a whispering slow slide of feathers, bone and extension of muscles. He had to fight to control the rest of the transformation, for it was difficult to halt at just the wings; with some concentration, he managed. The muscles around the scarred flesh where his right wing had been stretched tightly and Draco clenched his jaw at the sensation. 

Potter made a soft sound of surprise.

"Where do they come from?" he asked and Draco let out the breath that he hadn't known he'd been holding, in a quick huff of amusement and relief. "I mean...it just popped out, I don't even see where it was hidden under the skin?"

"It's just a part of Veela physiology," Draco told him, and for some reason he couldn't suppress the smile on his face.. "Magic, if you must know."

"Very funny," Potter said and started his work. When Draco glanced back over his shoulder, he could see Potter holding up the silver case. A soft blue light emerged from a tiny aperture near one end of the case, and it moved over the feathers of Draco's wing in a vertical, thin line. The light scanned from left to right and back again.

"What's that?" Draco asked, interrupting a stream of muttering from Potter, who actually startled a little and blinked at Draco. "Sorry. The thing in your hand."

"Oh." Potter tilted the little case and the blue light ceased. "It's a uniform scale recorder. It stores an image of an object with true measurements, in three dimensions if I like. I think it uses a Pensieve-based charm, but I'm not sure. I use it to record my art before they're sold."

Draco nodded; he'd thought that Potter would have pulled out a measuring tape, but this was wonderfully non-invasive. Potter looked at him, his expression slightly wary.

"I'll have to touch you now," he said. "I need to feel the feathers and the bones. Do you mind?" He held up his right hand and a small furrow of confusion dug in between Draco's brows. Then, he realised: Potter was asking if he was alright with being touched by the prosthetic.

"No, no," he said very quickly and then hurried to clarify, for Potter's expression had gone all complicated at the negation: a little sad, a lot resigned. "No, my apologies: I meant that I don't mind if you touch me with that hand. Not at all. Even without the glove, doesn't matter. It's fine, really."

He stumbled over a few of his words in a gainless haste, but it was worth it to see that injured look disappear from Potter's face. He stripped off his gloves and placed them over the back of a nearby armchair. Draco looked at the right hand: it was so strange and yet so powerfully wonderful. Potter had built it for himself, a collection of metal and wiring, and here he was using it. A searing sensation of hope flared all along Draco's skin and he felt a tremor set up in his wing. 

Potter was firm but very gentle in his touch; he traced over the long bones at the top, frowning in concentration as he shifted the feathers and peered at the different types and layers. He asked Draco to fold and extend them, more than one time and in different positions; he actually placed his hand on the muscles and bones as Draco complied, feeling how the wing moved.

To have Potter's hand on his wing like that wasn't as charged an experience as Draco had anticipated. It was more like being fitted at Madame Malkin's, really, albeit not as brusque.

"I think I've gotten enough information," Potter finally said and Draco put on back his shirt. "We'll need to install a base-receptacle...a kind of implant to help support wing, and connect to your nervous system to control it. Healer Chudha did the procedure to install mine, but for you he might need to consult with someone who has experience with Veela physiology."

"I know of someone," Draco said, very faintly. He personally knew two individuals with Healer status in the Veela nation. One of them had assisted with Scorpius' recovery, but they had been a specialist with younglings. He would have to ask Goleila. 

Potter nodded."I'll start right away. I need to design the receptacle first, and work with the Healers to have it installed."

 _In me_ , Draco thought, the thought wild and loud in his mind. He almost didn't hear the next thing Potter said:

"I should have a prototype ready in about six weeks."

Draco stared at him, stunned. "Oh, you don't have to--"

"I'll start right away," Potter repeated, quite insistent. He reached for his gloves and then stopped short when Draco held out his right hand; a deliberate move on his part.

After a very brief moment, Potter reached out with his prosthetic hand and took Draco's. How surprising: Draco had expected to feel coldness and rigid power. However, Potter's hand was warm and smooth, and grasped with deft restraint.

At the touch of their palms, though, Draco felt a sharp jolt, electric and sudden. His hand squeezed Potter's even more, hanging on as if he was falling off a cliff. He saw Potter's eyes widen, and thought that his own expression was possibly comically stupefied. Draco had felt this sensation only once before, this reflexive _knowing_ particular to quite a few Veela: an almost clairvoyant aligning of possibilities.

 _Oh_ , he thought. _Well, fuck_.

\---

In a corner of Harry's workshop, Hermione sat on a stool and stared at a flat square of parchment with one quill clenched tightly, the warm skin between her brows scrunched in deep concentration. Harry glanced at her now and again as he completed a connection on the first full-scale prototype of Malfoy's wing. Maquettes of varying styles and sizes were placed carefully on his own work-table, and images from his uniform scale recorder hovered over them in nearly serene stillness, flickering slightly now and again. He slumped back on his stool and looked at the wing. It had nothing of the gleaming featheriness of Malfoy's natural appendage: it was all long, exposed mechanisms and a dark, thin but sturdy material covering nearly all of it in triangular sections to accommodate movement without ripping the fabric. 

Malfoy had had the base-receptacle installed by Healer Chudha about a week ago under the watchful guidance of a tall and imposing Veela called Goleila. When Harry had visited Malfoy, Goleila had stood beside the bed and simply stared at Harry with shining black eyes. She turned to Malfoy and signed, her body swaying like a young tree in a storm; it looked like she asked him something. Malfoy had replied in the same language, but he had been a little groggy from the analgesic potions and his response had seemed quite uncoordinated. Still, Goleila had seemed quite satisfied and while her stony expression remained mostly fixed, Harry imagined that there was a softening around her piercing eyes. Healer Chudha had declared the minor surgery a success, and had allowed Harry to see the small round implant sunken into Malfoy's pale skin.

Despite the apparent sturdiness of the base-receptacle, Harry hadn't felt comfortable with it supporting the wing by itself as it controlled the actions of the massive limb. There would be a lot of movement and so he'd added on a shoulder-harness, affixing the inner edge of the wing to the curved panel of the harness. At this point in time, the way Harry designed it, Malfoy would need to wear the harness under his clothing if he wanted constant access to the prosthetic wing.

Harry placed one hand on a big joint; the polymetal was warm under his palm. He could clearly imagine this wing against Malfoy's pale skin, the strong muscles in his back flexing to adjust and control the limb. Malfoy's long hair would have to be swept out of the way of the harness, so it wouldn't be caught in the moving mechanisms.

Harry wouldn't want him to cut that smooth sheaf of bright hair. No, not at all. There was a lot of things about Malfoy now that Harry wouldn't want to change, really.

"Harry," Hermione said, practically in his ear and Harry jumped. "Whoops, sorry," she said, even though the amusement in her eyes said she was far from apologetic. Harry wrinkled his nose at her and moved his hand from where it still rested on the hinge he had drawn and built.

Hermione held up the parchment she'd been reviewing, with Harry's handwriting scattered over it. "Your wizardspace calculations look really solid...but there's one line that I'd probably correct: the release function is probably a bit too forceful. It might cause too much wear."

"Ah, brilliant." He looked over his Arithmancy notes, nodding. The formulas were intended to create a wizardspace native to an object: this pocket dimension was installed right into the harness and connected to the base-receptacle. The wizardspace would store the wing when it was commanded to retract, and allow it to pop out and lock into place. Harry felt a slight rush of panic. This was a working piece, created not just be viewed, but to be used constantly. His gaze trailed to his own prosthetic hand and he allowed himself to breathe.

[ ](http://s46.photobucket.com/user/lutchien/media/hp_fics/Mech0%20by%20notchibi_smallversion_zpsyu9axwui.jpg.html)

With Hermione's help, he adjusted the formulas and checked the stability of the pocket dimension. He tapped his wand on the wing, and watched it fold in and out with precise deliberation.

"This is amazing, Harry." Hermione's face was bright with wonder. "Look at it."

"I'm bringing it over to him tomorrow," Harry told her, and again, that prickly ball of nerves seemed to turn over. It sat there in the pit of his stomach, even as he paid Hermione for her consultancy (ignoring her protests) and went in the house to wake Alsie from his nap and give him a snack. It took up residence all through the night, and then seemed to gain mass as he prepared to bring the wing and its accompanying harness over to Malfoy's house.

He even brought Alsie as a sort of shield, even though Scorpius pounced at him as soon as they stepped out of the Floo. Albus Severus, usually a reserved child unless around his siblings, gave Scorpius a very wide smile.

"What are we doing today?" he asked Scorpius, whose whole frame squirmed as he replied in sign. Malfoy, who had been standing a few steps away, conjured up a quill and a square of parchment and handed them over to his son. Scorpius scribbled on it and held it up in front of Alsie's face.

The words _**WE CAN PAINT IF YOU WANT**_ were written in very large letters and the expression on Albus Severus' face was one of patient delight. They scampered out of Malfoy's office, and Harry focused on the drawn countenance which Malfoy wore, despite his quick smile of welcome. Malfoy didn't seem very excited; he had a worried, tired air.

"All right, there?" Harry asked.

Malfoy signed as he replied, apparently forgetting that Harry could hear and understand his speech. "I...just had a bit of an argument with someone." His movements were jerky and sharp, slicing through the air. 

Harry wanted to ask him _with who_ ; instead, he motioned to the small case in his hand with what he hoped was an encouraging smile and not an apprehensive grimace. "Ready, then?" he asked and Malfoy's eyes brightened considerably.

"Potter," he said and then looked down at his hands and arms as they moved about; he seemed slightly taken aback, as if stunned by their subversive actions. "Sorry, I--"

"Is that how my name looks in Veela sign?" Harry tilted his head and smiled. "It's nice."

"Well…" Malfoy seemed a little bit shifty all of a sudden. "It's not exactly your _name_ , per se. It's a sort of title that Veela use for you."

Harry laughed a little, enlarging the case to its great bulk and pushing open the lid. "I hope it's complimentary," he said as he levitated the wing and the harness up from where they had been nestled inside the case. The look of awe which bloomed over Malfoy's narrow face was completely gratifying.

Malfoy had to remove his fine shirt again, not that Harry minded. He tried not to stare too much at the light hair along Malfoy's arms and on his chest, or the dip of his waist. He thought he was spared by Malfoy turning around, but he felt helpless as Malfoy put his hand under the long fall of his hair and swept it around to fall over his shoulder.

Wow, you're pretty fucked, he thought to himself. He tried not to touch Malfoy too much when he helped to pull on the harness, clamping it carefully into base-receptacle. Malfoy shivered at the soft click and remained perfectly still as Harry took a few steps back. The dark wing hung in what Harry liked to think of as the passive mode, the long jointed frame held half-folded. The pistons were dormant, awaiting the command to activate.

"Here's the hard part," he murmured, and Malfoy trembled again. "You need to cast Annecetere to connect your nervous system to the wing...it's like a little neural bridge. Everything runs through the base-receptacle: that's the key." He didn't tell Malfoy about the pocket wizardspace in the harness just yet. If everything went fine, he wouldn't need to.

"All right," Malfoy said, but he seemed to be speaking more to himself than to Harry. "All right." He let out a long, slow breath. "I'm a bit terrified, Potter," he murmured and let out a wild little bark of laughter. 

"It's okay," Harry told him. "Just feel for it. You'll sense it, you'll know the shape of it in your mind."

Malfoy nodded. He shrugged and his other wing emerged in a burst of white feathers. It moved and twitched, feathers fluttering in an unseen wind. The prosthetic remained still. When he inhaled deeply, the left wing shifted in readiness, the longer feathers at the end splaying apart and yet, the right wing hung motionless. 

Harry stepped around Malfoy to look up into his face. Malfoy did appear quite petrified, and without thinking, Harry reached out and cupped his face in both hands. He cradled Malfoy's jaw, thumbs barely resting on the slightly scruffy cheeks.

"Feel for it," Harry told him, and Malfoy's jittery mood smoothed out. He looked right into Harry's eyes, waiting. Harry breathed in, and he breathed out. Harry exhaled, and Draco inhaled. "You'll sense it. You'll know the shape of it in your mind."

Draco's lips parted. He leaned close, gaze still locked with Harry's and Harry drew him closer.

They both jumped apart as their two boys stampeded in, their hands full of parchment, coloured pencils and small paintbrushes. Malfoy shifted, turning to face his son, as Scorpius's hands flew to his face, all his artistic implements clattering to the timber floor. He clapped his hands over his mouth, and tears stood in his wide eyes.

"Darling," Draco said to him, his voice shaking. "Do...do you like it?"

Scorpius seemed frozen to the spot for a long beat. Alsie gave Harry a stunned glance and then reached out to touch Scorpius on the shoulder, calling to him in that gentle way of his. Scorpius turned to look at Albus Severus, explaining something with his small, sturdy body: Alsie's eyes were quite wide, but he nodded slowly. Scorpius then turned back to Draco, his face bright. He transformed into his Veela state, a tiny feathery form with lots of short fluffy feathers and shining dark eyes.

Scorpius' wings were far smaller than Draco's, but he managed to curve one of them around to the front of his body so that he could pluck out one of his feathers. He ran over to Draco and held it out to him. Harry thought that Draco was about to faint, for he swayed back and forth before kneeling in front of his son and taking the proffered feather in reverent hands.

Draco whispered the spell to the feather in his hand, and Scorpius' expression was so full of a wide, fierce joy that Harry could barely look at him directly: but he could focus on Malfoy's wings. Both of them rose up and spread outwards, moving with measured gracefulness like reflections in a mirror; a series of small hisses signaled that the pistons functioned just fine. By the time they extended to their full span, nearly filling the space, Scorpius had flung his arms around Draco's neck and began to weep.

Alsie walked over to Harry, leaning against the side of his leg as if Harry needed be held up in such a manner. "That's brill," he opined in his wise little voice, and all Harry could do was smile.

[ ](http://s46.photobucket.com/user/lutchien/media/hp_fics/Mech1%20by%20notchibi_smallversion_zpsp3gjeggc.jpg.html)

\---

With Scorpius' feather stuck securely into the mechanical wing, Draco flew for the first time in six years. 

Below him, in the sprawling field of the back yard, Scorpius and Albus Severus raced back and forth in sheer excitement. Harry Potter sat right on the grass near the back verandah, arms wrapped around his drawn-up legs. In his brown face, his bright eyes stared up at Draco with wonder.

It wasn't perfect: he had developed a tendency to bank a little to the right even when attempting to move in a level manner; the wind felt different under the prosthetic. Yet, it rushed over and under his wings, _his wings_ , and at the thought he barreled up and over, grinning at Scorpius' shrieks. The harness had pinched a little, but Harry had adjusted that easily, and it now lay snug over his back and shoulder. He had dug around in his wardrobe and found a shirt which had specially-slits in the back to accommodate his wings as they emerged. The smooth material fluttered as he flew.

Draco rose up in the air and dove to land in front of his little boy. He swung Scorpius up in the air, peppering his face with kisses. Scorpius could hardly stop laughing, and when Draco paused, Scorpius twisted his arms and held out his hand to Albus Severus. So Draco bent down, and lifted him as well. Albus Severus settled in the crook of his elbow quite comfortably and scrutinized Draco's face.

"They're nice, right?" he finally asked, an understatement if Draco had ever heard one.

"They're positively perfect," Draco told him and Albus Severus smiled his father's smile. He set them on their feet, and they scampered off towards the house. Draco folded in his wings and even _that_ was a wonder: his mechanical wing, under the ever-present pulse of _Annecetere_ , obeyed the commands from his mind and gathered into itself, which then activated the wizardspace. It was then pulled in a rush of metal and textile, disappearing just like his other wing.

He stared at where Harry still sat on the grass, and strode over to him. Harry watched his approach with a small upward curve to his lips. Draco knelt before him and reached out to cup his face. Harry's skin was like warm earth under his pale fingers. 

"Anything," Draco told him, very quietly. "Anything you ask of me. It's yours."

"That's a large order," Harry told him, but his smile grew order. "You've paid me quite a bit already, you know."

"You gave me--" Draco broke off, swallowing hard. Harry's expression remained calm and open, and he found the courage to go on: "You've given back a very important part of myself."

"I'm glad," Harry told him and Draco could have sat there all evening with Harry Potter's face cupped in his hands like an oath, but he had to prepare supper for a small child who got quite cranky if he wasn't fed on time. So, with great reluctance, he got to his feet and helped up Harry.

As they walked towards the back patio, Draco said, "I hope…" He wasn't quite sure what he was hoping for, really.

Harry glanced at him and said, "Me too."

In the hallway just outside Draco's office, Scorpius signed quite wildly to Astoria's portrait. Albus Severus stood beside him, gazing up at Astoria with in a fixed way, as if she was a puzzle he needed to solve right away. Astoria's arms and hands carved queries and exclamations; now and again, her attention would drift towards Albus Severus, before being snagged once more by Scorpius' frenzied happiness. 

When she saw Harry, she paused and straightened from her bent over posture. She nodded at him, and then gave Draco a very eloquent stare. 

"We should be on our way," Harry murmured but Scorpius descended into a flurry of dismayed protests. Harry grinned, but it seemed very forced. "Oh, Alsie will be back soon, don't worry."

As they left, Albus Severus told Scorpius _bye_ in human sign; simple enough to learn and do, but Scorpius seemed quite impressed. As soon as Harry and Albus Severus left, Draco asked Scorpius to go to his room for a moment.

 _But food_ , Scorpius whined, face scrunched in a fair approximation of starvation.

 _I'll start it in a moment_ , Draco told him and sent him on his way. He took a deep breath and then turned to Astoria. They'd had a very intense quarrel before Harry had arrived with the wing.

"I know!" she'd shouted at him. "You're to be _my mate_! They've told me, you know! My parents, they've told me!"

"Why have they told you?!" Draco had shouted in return, even though he hadn't meant to raise his voice. He felt mostly shame at himself, for he'd always been such a coward. All these years, and he had never managed to explain to this version of Astoria why he would need to have a portrait of her in his house. He couldn't explain all of that, and so he pushed his anger out. "They should never have told you!"

Astoria's face twisted. "He'll take you both from me," she swore, her eyes glittering. "I won't let him."

"You left," Draco choked out. "You… you were _taken_ from us--"

She had given him a look of pure horror and dismay, and then fled the frame. Now, she stared at him and he did not know how to read her closed expression.

So he spoke.

"You knew before me," he told her, "that we were meant to be together. I nearly didn't believe you, but you convinced me."

She watched him, her eyes widening slightly. Draco felt his wings fold out, and now her face was suffused with wonder. 

"You gave me _everything_ ," he said and she pressed both of her hands over her trembling mouth. "When I thought I could have nothing. I could never stop loving you. I will love you always. But I think I can also love _him_. Not just because he's given me back my wing...but because you taught me how."

Tears streamed down Astoria's face; _that's where Scorpius gets it from_ , Draco thought faintly, even though his own cheeks were wet. 

"Will I make you happy?" she asked, her voice clogged with emotion. "... _did_ I make you happy?"

"Every single day," Draco told her, and she collapsed to the floor in front of her beautiful chair, her hands now covering her face as her shoulders shook. Her dress spread around her like the petals of a massive soft flower, and he imagined he could smell the sweetness of her perfume as he leaned against the frame and crooned a sound of comfort.

Finally, Astoria's hands fell away to settle in her lap. She looked at him with her Veela face, sharp and wild and proud.

 _Tharmisa_ , she told him. _He's helped to make you whole again. I am glad._

fin

**Author's Note:**

>  **Other head-canons for this story:**  
>  \- Astoria and Harry are of black/east indian descent.  
> \- Harry is trans (ftm). As a child, the Dursleys thought it fitting treatment to dress him in Dudley's hand-me-downs, and call him 'boy'. This, Harry thought (and never said), was probably the best thing in his life with them. In the wizarding world, transitioning individuals are higher in number for the population than the Muggle world.  
> \- Harry and Ginny had children through a magic-genetic procedure *hand-waves all the science*. They have never been married and never will be, but with their partners and children, they are family.


End file.
